by Erin Green
‘Can I pay the deposit and get back to you?’ This might blow the party budget but still, they’re fun, it gets people up and involved.
‘You could . . . but if you felt the final quote was too high, you might prefer to go elsewhere.’
‘And my deposit?’
‘That’s non-refundable.’
Great! Do I chance it or not? Book entertainment without a venue secured?
‘Would you still like me to take the card details over the phone?’
I take the gamble. The idea of ticking one thing off my to-do list feels like an achievement.
I linger over the call, once my card details are given, knowing what awaits me.
In fact, I make another coffee, check the weather report and then, when there’s really no other option, return my mother’s call.
‘Hello, darling, I was wondering what you’re doing next Wednesday at midday?’ she asks immediately, continuing without giving me a chance to speak or confirm if I am free. Knowing my part-time work pattern of Mondays, Tuesday and Fridays, she assumes I am. ‘I’ve booked myself a treat with Derek – you remember Derek, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes, I remember Derek,’ I reply. Or Derek the Deviant, as our household nicknamed him after he and my mother attended a series of dodgy evening classes where a state of undress always seemed a prerequisite, alongside the usual course fee.
I hold my breath, awaiting her next line.
‘Anyway, it’s called tantric intimacy . . . have you heard about it? Derek says it’s all the rage at the moment amongst our generation.’
I cringe, not fully understanding the term but my skin has learnt to crawl at any of Derek’s suggestions. Why and how my mother has involved herself is beyond me.
‘Polly . . . are you there?’
‘I’m waiting to hear what that involves, Mum, that’s all . . . It’ll no doubt shock or surprise me. I thought that tantric related to sexual activity, but I thought you’d previously said that you and Derek weren’t . . .’ I can’t find the words or at least can’t bring myself to say them aloud to a sixty-four-year-old woman who’s vigorously fighting to retain her youth.
‘Polly, stop being so timid, my darling! Life doesn’t have to be so defined, sweetheart. You need to allow yourself to be free from the trappings of social norms. Derek and I can be whatever we choose, from one week to the next.’
My stomach reacts and a bit of vomit burns the back of my throat. This is not what I need to hear from my own mother at this – or any – hour of the day.
‘Thank you, Mum, but Fraser and I are more than happy as we are. We’re not looking to go against the norms of society . . . unlike yourself and dear Derek.’
‘Anyway, I need you to drop me off for midday and then collect me afterwards,’ she continues.
‘Where from?’
‘The Bed Shop.’
‘The Bed Shop on the High Street? Are you serious, Mum?’ My mind fills with the quaint image of our local, eponymously named bed shop, manned by the softly spoken Mrs Jenkins, established thirty years ago and maintained by her nearest and dearest.
‘Sorry, correction, I read the leaflet incorrectly . . . the studio above The Bed Shop.’
‘Oh, I’m glad to hear it. I was concerned for a second . . . I’d have never bought from there again if it was the actual bed shop staging such an event.’
‘Oh Polly, humour me for once. My days are drawing nigh and I do as I please.’
‘Why can’t you be happy with flower arranging or painting watercolours?’
‘Listen, darling, when you’re older, I hope you never have to justify your decisions to Cody.’
‘Mum, if I ever reach old age, I’ll make sure I never give Cody anything to question me about, OK? I’ll happily potter around my garden deadheading the dahlias.’
‘Mmmm, anyway . . .’
‘Pencil me in for Wednesday, though I bet you didn’t consider asking Helen if she’s available, did you?’
‘Helen’s got her hands full with the two girls. Bye, darling, speak to you later. Mwah, mwah.’
I end the call and shiver at the thought of any intimacy lesson in a room full of strangers, tantric or not.
I glance at the clock; I have barely thirty minutes before Stacey arrives, but a quick chat with my sister won’t hurt.
She answers within two rings.
‘Hi, Helen, how’s things?’
‘Good, good . . . you?’
‘A quick call for two things: are you still OK for Sunday lunch and save the date for the twenty-ninth as Cody’s now decided he does want a twentieth party.’
‘Yes to Sunday but . . .’
‘No buts, Helen.’
‘Oh Polly, I asked you about that weeks ago and you said . . .’
‘I know what I said, but he’s only just changed his mind this morning over breakfast. What can I do, Helen?’
‘Oh Polly . . . we were . . . we wanted to . . . we need . . .’
‘Don’t you dare let me down, Helen! You’re the only normal relatives the lad has so there’s no way you and Marc are squirming out of attending!’
‘But, Polly, I did ask . . . you remember me asking, right?’
‘I do, but tough. You’re his aunty and Cody wants you there.’
‘He or you?’
‘Both, you silly arse. What other plans have you got anyway?’
‘I wanted to book a weekend break away for just me and Marc.’
‘And I wonder who you’d have asked to babysit the girls over the weekend? Me, by any chance?’
‘Well, yes, I wouldn’t trust anyone else, but it looks as if that idea’s gone for a burton.’
‘Sure has. Instead you’ll be dancing at your nephew’s twentieth, alongside your husband – why don’t you book yourself a couple of rooms at the Travelodge overnight and make the most of it?’
‘Are the girls invited?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh . . . just with his mates there and the amount of drink I assume will be flowing . . .’
‘Helen . . . listen to yourself, will you? It’s a family celebration. There’ll be the usual family, close friends and, yeah, some of Cody’s mates – his good mates, who he’s grown up with.’
‘OK, I’ll see what . . .’
‘No, not I’ll see what Marc says!’
‘Polly.’
‘Helen. Tell me, how many nephews do you have?’
‘One,’ says Helen, her dulcet tone rattling my cage.
‘How many sisters do you have?’
‘One.’
‘There you go then, decision made . . . Saturday the twenty-ninth of February, arrive sometime around seven-thirty – I’ll let you know the venue when I’ve booked it. Love you. See you on Sunday.’
I end the call before she devises another excuse.
I start tidying away my to-do list and grab a pile of customer filing, making it appear as if I have actually done some work this morning. I can do fifteen minutes before Stacey arrives at one.
Cheeky bugger. One nephew, one sister and she thinks she can shirk her duties. Did I say ‘I’ll think about it’ when she asked me to be Evie and Erica’s godmother? No. And did Fraser complain about being dragged into the godparent mix purely by association? No.
I silently chastise my older sister for her slack notions about family obligations. I rely on her to counterbalance the lack of normality in the handful of other relatives that Cody has: a grandmother who has reverted to her youth and a grandfather obsessed with his ex-wife covers my side of the family, apart from my great-aunty Doris, who I can never remember or explain the family connection to. As for Fraser’s side, his parents always smother Cody – he’s the only grandchild on their side, which is sad given their hopes for their other two sons. His uncle Rory and uncl
e Ross are both good-looking chaps yet neither has ever settled down. So all the more reason why my older sister had better step up to the plate!
The door chime sounds, interrupting my thoughts.
Smile in place, I look up to greet the customer.
It’s Lola, Cody’s ex-girlfriend.
My smile fades.
‘Hi, Polly, I was wondering . . .’ Her heavily made-up lips pout as she speaks.
‘What do you want, Lola?’ My voice is flat, but the volume is high.
I sit back as she lets the shop door close and steadily makes her way to settle in one of the customer chairs in front of my desk. Her heavy-looking boots unbalance her skinny proportions; she’s poured into tight jeans and a skinny-ribbed top beneath a plume of synthetic cream fur. She drops her oversized handbag to the floor. At eighteen, did I ever look that sultry? Or was I always sunshine and smiles?
I’ll wait. I’ll allow her chance to say what she wants and then I’ll say my bit.
‘I was thinking, with it being Cody’s birthday in a week or so, is there anything he was particularly wanting, like, as a present?’
‘A present? You wish to buy Cody a present?’ I’m stunned. This is the last thing I thought she was about to say.
‘Yeah, something nice.’
‘Something nice,’ I repeat, my brain playing for time. ‘Something nice like a social media posting circulated amongst all his mates and co-workers suggesting that he cheated on you? Or an actual gift?’
‘Polly . . . that wasn’t me. I’ve told you, my account was hacked and before I knew it . . .’
‘Really? In which case, it was so good of you to deactivate your account after only forty-eight hours, once numerous people had added their remarks and shared the details several times causing my son much embarrassment at work.’
‘Polly, his workmates were fine with him afterwards.’
‘That’s hardly the point, Lola.’
‘Anyway . . .’
‘Anyway . . .’ I mimic, knowing I sound pathetic given my age, but my angst goes unnoticed. ‘What else can I help you with?’
‘Oh, nothing. I was just passing and wondered what Cody might like, that’s all.’
‘I’m sure he’s quite all right as he is, thanks, Lola. Now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ I say, glancing around the store. I really wish there was a queue of impatient customers right now, as then my comment would seem apt. Given there’s no one here, it makes me feel daft.
Lola follows my gaze around the empty shop and looks back at me, puzzled.
She gets the message though and stands, grabbing her handbag.
‘If there’s anything you can think of, just let me know, OK?’
I smile and nod politely as Lola talks and walks backwards towards the shop door. I have no intention of passing on any message or encouraging this young woman in any way.
‘Polly, please,’ she says opening the door. ‘It’s been so long since I spoke to him and . . .’
‘Did you not get any flowers last Friday?’ I ask, having hit my irritability limit.
Her kohl-edged eyes widen as I knew they would.
‘No!’
‘Oh!’ I give a tiny shrug.
‘Cody sent flowers to someone on Valentine’s Day?’ Her jaw drops, her petite frame frozen.
‘Oops, sorry.’ I busy myself with my computer. I know that was a cheap shot, but necessary to erase her intentions regarding my son.
As Lola’s head drops and the door closes behind her, a wave of guilt washes over me, chased away immediately by a wave of sheer relief.
Dana
I button my coat as I near the crowd of parents standing by the metal railings at the top of the school driveway. There was a time we were allowed down the driveway to congregate nearer the school exits but not since Tyler’s mum showed her annoyance at him coming second in the ‘design a Christmas card’ competition to Miranda-with-the-most-gold-stars when her mum rudely sneered. Mrs Huggins, the school’s cuddly head teacher, was having none of it and put a stop to parents standing anywhere where the children might see adults having a fist fight through a classroom window. As a result, we now gather at the metal railings, which means our little ones have a trek and a half, accompanied by one or two knackered teachers, to reach us at the end of the school day.
I stand on the outer edge of the parental crowd, mindful not to ignore others but definitely not willing to join the ranks of the chummy-mummies, who haven’t a nice word to say about anyone, even each other!
I smile at Bethany’s mum standing a few feet away, rocking her brand-new baby stroller; obviously her first outing since baby girl number three arrived. I mouth ‘congratulations’ and she smiles. I’d go over and have a coo but I daren’t risk that newborn baby smell wafting up my nose and setting me off being broody. Hankering after a non-existent newborn is the last thing I need right now, so I stand well clear and smile politely. I’ll leave it a week or two, then ask for a cuddle when the new arrival smells a little more milky, of baby sick or of Johnson & Johnson talc. Then I can compliment her on how well she looks in her slim-cut jeans, which she’ll feel obliged to squeeze into before long given the twice-daily scrutiny of the chummy-mummies.
I give a polite nod towards the Two Dads of Dudley, who always attend the school gate delivery and collection despite one being the dad and the other the mum’s current partner, a devoted stepdad. I’m always intrigued how their love triangle works, because the Two Dads of Dudley appear and leave at the same time. Dudley goes home and arrives with a different dad and his car each day. I suspect there is one ultra-organised mum as the kingpin, with both dads doing their duty regardless of the other’s presence. But, hey, if it works, it works. Dudley has three doting parents to cater to his every need, which can’t be bad. I wonder how and where you find such obliging dads and stepdads, as Kingpin Mum has obviously cracked it. If I ever spot her, I’ll be sure to ask. Luke’s father, Andrew, jumped ship just three days after the positive test – not the pregnancy result but the amniocentesis at seventeen weeks.
Ring, ring, ring!
The faint sound of the school bell can be heard at the gate. At this point most, though not all, parents cease chatting and prepare for the dash. Not the dash of little ones racing up the driveway but the dash to grab your little ones’ hand and quick march faster than their little legs can move to your precariously parked vehicle, on double yellows, if needs be. Before anyone else has chance to bundle their children in, fiddle with car seats, indicate and pull out – which will block you in for at least ten minutes because some people have insufficient status amongst the parents to break into the traffic once it is jammed solid along the school road. If you’re not part of the in-crowd, no amount of PTA attendance, birthday party promises or inching your bumper out will get you the green light to cut in or a friendly headlamp flash.
Me, I walk. I walk every day with Luke as it gives us chance for a lovely end-of-school-day chat and gives him a little extra exercise. Plus I get to carry his heavy rucksack, providing me with an extra little weight-training session on top of the heavy water buckets I move each day. I love it. This walking routine of delivery and collection to this sweet little primary school is one of the highlights of each day, which is why I refuse to let others ruin it for me. I’m a mum. Luke’s mum. And I love it.
A tsunami of tiny bodies, white shirt tails flapping, snotty noses running, plaits unplaiting, flow up the driveway towards us waiting parents. You see their little blank faces react and respond to the familiar face only when they recognise it amongst the crowd. It’s like a light-bulb moment, from off to shining, from blank expression to ‘Daddy!’. It never ceases to amaze me, the instant transformation on their tiny faces. Around me a sea of ‘Hello, cupcake’, ‘Jake, I’m over here’ and ‘Oh dear, how did you do that then?’ fills the air.
And here’s
my Luke. Why are his little glasses always skew-whiff? He never straightens them so the tilt of the blue plastic gives him a permanently cute but slightly daft expression.
His coat is wide open, flapping as he runs, his little legs are pounding; in one hand he’s clutching a large piece of paper – no doubt it’s another painting for our fridge exhibition. In the other is a black bin liner. I know that inside will be a wet pair of pants and maybe one pair of school trousers. Despite Luke’s best efforts, despite everything he has managed to overcome to attend the mainstream school allocated by our local authority, he still leaves it a little late regards peeing. Potty training was one of our biggest struggles; thankfully he managed the main business, just not the peeing. Sadly, most days he leaves school clutching a bin liner. I’m grateful that the school accommodate his needs but I really do wish they wouldn’t send him out clutching the evidence, notifying every other parent of his continued accidents. I’d much prefer to walk down to the school office or the classroom and collect the bin liner myself. Peeing and speech are his areas of weakness, and I don’t know how many times I’ve discussed both with the primary school. I’m used to his lack of articulated words but until he receives his allotted speech therapy sessions, I can’t see this weakness improving.
‘Mummy!’ he cries in his own fashion, thrusting the large piece of paper at me while I crouch down and attempt to steal a wet kiss, grabbing the bin liner from his clutches. ‘Look . . . I painted a panda!’ His lack of self-consciousness melts my heart; my boy doesn’t care about bin liners or skewed glasses, just his painting.
I take his offering and stare at the blobs of red and blue paint which has seven sticky-out fingers on each hand and a long tail. Not recognisable as any panda I’ve ever seen, but what do I know? I’ll leave it to my little expert.
I’m about to praise him, coo over his efforts, when Tyler’s mum chips in unexpectedly, as she’s still waiting for her little cherub to appear.
‘That’s quite good,’ she remarks, peering at his painting. ‘Considering.’
Instantly, the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. My head lifts in slow motion, as her final word hangs in the air between us.